A Christmas Miracle
by mwuh-awesome
Summary: What if Dean and Castiel had meet before the events of season 4? It's Christmas Eve and Dean is stealing presents for Sam. Again. This time though, he almost gets caught, saved at the last minute by a blue-eyed stranger who won't stop staring. Pre-series. Wee!chesters and wee!cas.


Pairing: gen. Although I suppose you could say pre Dean/Castiel.

Warnings: none.

Word count: 2, 657

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Dean is stealing presents for Sam again. This time though, he almost gets caught, saved at the last minute by a blue-eyed stranger who won't stop _staring_. Dean and Cas meet once as kids. Pre-series. Wee!chesters and wee!cas.

Notes: Requested by Grace. Here you go. Dean is around 12-14. Title from the song _Never say Never _by the Fray.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.

* * *

It's Christmas Eve. Dean had almost forgotten, only remembering when Sam had beamed up at him earlier that evening, gaps missing between his baby teeth, and asked Dean if they could bake something, cookies perhaps, in preparation for Santa's arrival. (Dean had had no choice but to agree. The motel was one of the first with a working oven and hygienic kitchenware, and their dad had even left an almost full bottle of milk before leaving the previous day. So who was he to deny his baby brother this? On Christmas eve?)

It's late and the burning smell has just begun to fade from their motel room, the remains of the earlier disaster crumbling in the trashcan. Eyes trained on the slight rise and fall of his brother's chest, Dean slips from his bed and tiptoes to the door. He pulls his jacket and boots on over his batman pjs, staring watchfully at the lump on the second bed. He's careful to check the salt lines before he leaves, locking the motel door firmly behind him.

The manager glares when he sneaks past the front desk. Dean ducks his head and zips his jacket up all the way, burrowing his chin into the fold, carefully avoiding eye contact. Nothing in the room had caught fire; the damned manager couldn't prove nothin'.

He makes sure to stay tucked in the shadows as he makes his way into the town's suburbs. He keeps to the half deserted streets and steers clear of the drunken ones entirely, his father's many warnings echoing through his head.

He's not sure what house to pick, never is in these situations. He doesn't want to pick a house nearby; although the lack of security those houses have would make it the easiest option. He just can't find it in himself to do it. It feels wrong to steal from those that might have as much as he does. But on the other hand, he can't risk heading up into the richer areas for fear of tripping an alarm.

He finally picks a double storey house on the corner of Maple street (or perhaps it's Mable street; he doesn't know, it's too dark to tell). The lights are all off and while the door is dead bolted, one of the windows toward the front has been left ajar.

He moves quickly, movements like a cat as he slips through the crack, avoiding the creaky hinges and landing soundlessly. He gives his eyes time to adjust to the darkness before moving into the living room.

The Christmas tree stands tall in the corner of the room, glowing lights draped around the base, around the middle, around the top. At the very top of the tree, a star rests. Dean approaches carefully, eyes fixed on it. It stares down at him and when he bends down to dig through the piles of presents resting against the trunk, the star watches, accusing and disapproving. Dean ducks his head further and tries not to think about it, tries not to feel guilty. This is for Sammy.

Ten minutes in, he hears a door creak open somewhere above him. There is a brief murmur of muffled voices and the groan of a bed. Dean hears footsteps. He freezes in place as they walk directly above him, towards the stairs.

_Stay quiet, _his instincts shout at him, _don't make a sound! Melt into the shadows, like dad showed you! There has to be somewhere you can hide!_

Panic hits him full on as the person starts down the stairs. His breathing picks up- fast and shallow and far, far too loud – and the presents clatter from his hands, rolling back under the tree and out of sight. Ignoring them, he stumbles back, the back of his jeans bumping into the side of a couch. His limbs feel too long and awkward, his movements too slow and sluggish. The footfalls above grow louder, practically running down the stairs towards the source of noise, towards Dean. One of his hands presses against his jacket as he begins to shake, clutching tightly against his heart, the beating beneath his palm warm and erratic.

There's pressure around his neck, the jolt of movement and the rough thud of his knees against hardwood floors. The next thing he knows, Dean is sitting down.

"You need to calm down." Someone is breathing into his ear and words are being whispered to him, their presence oddly calming. "You're safe now, they can't find you here, do not worry. You're safe." Dean's breathing begins to deepen and ease out and he feels himself sag against the person behind him. There's an arm wrapped around his throat but he does not fight it. The hold is neither commanding nor threatening and something, something Dean hasn't felt in a long, long time, is urging him to trust it.

He looks around; someone has pulled him into the space behind the china cabinet in the corner of the room, in the shadows and hidden from view. The perfect escape. Dean watches, crouched and aware, as a man tiptoes into view, clad in striped pyjamas and an old robe. Dean flinches as the room is lit up and he finds himself shrinking backwards against the person behind him. The man rubs at his eyes and yawns, scanning the room for any signs of life – skipping over the place Dean is worked into – before sighing and flicking off the light, heading back towards the stairs.

After the man has gone, Dean stays frozen in place.

There's a person behind him - a _stranger. _A stranger that may or may not have just saved him. Dean's confused – not _afraid, _no, never afraid – and more than a little anxious. Could this person be a demon?

"He's gone now. Asleep," his saviour says to him after a moment. Dean still hasn't moved. "Are you alright?"

_Sudden movement makes it hard for them to grab you, _he remembers his father telling him once. _If they're close enough to do damage, you're pretty much fucked but every advantage you can get, take it._

Dean pauses, gathers his strength and then springs away, leaping away from the cabinet and the other person. The arm around his throat slackens as he moves, letting him go without a fight. Dean twists around to face his companion, his fists up in front of him, prepared.

When he looks, he's surprised to see that the figure in the shadows is small. Dean's height if not shorter. Through the darkness, he can just make out a shock of short curly hair and the rounded curve of a nose.

"Are you alright?" the person asks him again.

"I- you just," Dean swallows roughly, composes himself. "Who _are _you?" he asks at last.

The person – kid? – moves then, crawling from his perch against the wall towards Dean and- okay, wow, not stopping, coming in close, closer than Dean is strictly comfortable with.

"Um…" A nose hovers centimetres from his own. Dean's vision consists entirely of a pair of eyes, wide and freakishly blue. Bluer than anything Dean had seen before in his short life full of motel browns and gunmetal grey. Something – the same something that urged him to trust the kid in front of him – is nagging at him again, whispering at him not to fight this person.

The boy's gaze is unfaltering. The way he stares at Dean seems almost… awed, as though the kid had never seen another boy before. This, coupled with the otherworldly shade of his eyes, is more than enough to freak Dean out.

"Dude," he chokes, "ever heard of personal space?"

The boy blinks and seems to check his position. He leans back, the movement seeming almost reluctant. "My apologises," the boy says.

Now that Dean can see him, he notices the boy is just that; a boy. Several years older or several years younger than Dean himself, he cannot tell.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the boy is wearing a fancy school uniform. Blue tie – although Dean notices it's tied backwards, odd – dress shirt, black sweater vest and polished, black shoes. The works. Over the top of the uniform, rests a khaki jacket, falling about mid-thigh on the boy. The tailored outfit makes Dean feel somehow less, dressed in frayed cotton pyjamas.

"Who are you?" Dean wonders.

The boy ignores the question. "Are you alright?" he asks Dean once more.

There's real concern in those eyes. It's unnerving. "Yeah," Dean coughs and looks away, unable to handle the endless eye contact. "Thanks, by the way. For, you know."

"I know?" the boy furrows his eyebrows and tips his head to the side. Dean thinks, somewhat hysterically, that confusion makes the boy across from him look like puppy. "I don't understand. What do I know?"

"I- you," Dean shakes his head. "Nevermind."

There's another pause and despite the awkward tense Dean can feel setting in, the boy continues to look unfazed. It's like the kid doesn't even notice it, can't muster up social skills to even recognise the uncomfortable edge in the situation. What a nerd.

Nerd. Sam. With a start, Dean is reminded of his little brother, all alone on Christmas Eve. Waiting for Santa. And where's Dean? Watching some blue-eyed freak make googly eyes at him on the carpet of some rich guy's living room.

Dean sets his shoulders and stands. He makes his way back to the tree, back to the presents. His eyes scan the wrapped packages, locks onto a random one and reaches down to grab it.

"That one is a toy designed for infants under the age of eighteen months."

Dean turns and looks at the boy. Just who _is _this kid?

"How would you know that?" Dean lets a hint of accusation seep into his voice. "Do you live here?"

The boy doesn't answer his question. Hasn't done once this evening. Instead, he rises and takes his place besides Dean. He looks at the mountain of gifts for a moment before bending and scooping up three of them. "These ones should suffice," he tells Dean.

Dean eyes the kid. "Why would you do this?" he asks. "I mean, you must live here, right? Why give your own family's presents to me?"

"They are not my family. Nor do I live here." The boy holds the presents out, shaking them when Dean makes no move to take them. "These presents will not be missed."

"How do you know-"

"Trust me." Dean is beginning to. It scares him. "Take the gifts." Dean does.

They fall silent, presents cradled carefully in Dean's arms. He should leave. He should.

Dean looks up at the tree. He studies it, memorises each glass bauble, the way the tinsel loops around each branch, each glowing bulb. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he could try and make something like this with things in their motel.

"You're mesmerised with the idea of a stereotypical Christmas," Dean tears his eyes away and looks to the kid. The boy is staring at him again. Dean has a feeling he never stopped. "Why?" The question doesn't sound nosy or pressing, like one would assume, but generally curious, as though the kid is actually interested in the answer.

"I dunno," Dean gives him a one-shoulder shrug. "I guess… well, my family doesn't really celebrate Christmas and I've- I've always kind of wanted to."

"It fascinates you," it's not an accusation, merely an observation. Again, Dean shrugs. "Your family… where are they tonight?"

"Oh, they're- _shit," _Dean glances to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The clock ticks once and then begins to chime softly, both hands pointing upwards. Dean swears again. "Look man," he tells the boy, "I really got to go, my family," he gestures for the door, "they'll be waiting for me."

The boy nods. As Dean starts for the door, the boy says quickly, "Can I come with you?" Dean stops, surprised. Turning, he discovers the boy looks even more so, shocked at his own sudden outburst. "I just," the boy has one foot outstretched, as if he had made to follow Dean. "I live near that side of town."

"Really?" Dean asks, dubious.

"Really." It's a lie. Dean can tell; has told enough of them to recognise a cover-up when he sees one.

But the kid's scrawny and, well, actually kind of interesting. He doesn't _seem _like a threat…

"I guess so," Dean says.

The boy's face lights up, a grin, wide and ecstatic, pulling up his lips. It's the first real expression Dean has seen all night. "That's- that's _great," _the boy says happily. He joins Dean at the doorway and says, "We should go now. The family are beginning to wake up again and I doubt I can hide us again."

Above the stairway, a light is flickered on and Dean can hear muffled voices once more. He swears and grabs onto the boy's wrist with one hand, unlocking the door with the other – presents tucked securely under his arm. "Come on," he shouts as they run down the street, feet pounding away at the pavement.

They pass house after cookie-cutter house, round the corner and then disappear from sight.

* * *

"I never did tell you my name, did I?"

"I never told you mine either."

Dean shrugs. "You don't have to tell me, that's fine." The boy looks relieved. "But I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

The boy smiles, small and secret. "Hello, Dean," he says.

They lapse into silence. It must be early Christmas morning about now, everyone still fast asleep in their beds. The sun is still hours away from dawning. Everything is silent and, for once, calm. It's strange… Dean hasn't felt this peaceful since- well, since before that night of fire all those years ago. He wonders what it is about this boy – this weird, _weird, _nameless boy – that brings about this sense of calm. He can already feel them slipping into an easy companionship. But, geez, Dean's known the kid for less than an _hour. _I mean, _what._

"How old are you?" Dean asks him.

The boy pauses, thinks about it. "Old," he says finally.

"Yeah, I get that," Dean says, smiling. "I swear, even though I'm barely even a teenager, sometimes I feel, like, almost _too _old_." _Dean laughs. The boy does not.

"You've had a rough life," he tells Dean solemnly. It feels like an apology.

Dean stops laughing. "What-"

"You're wondering how I know this. You're emotions are very easy to read. To me, at least."

"What are you-"

"Nothing," the boy looks away, staring up at the stars as they walk.

They reach the motel minutes later. Dean stops, looks at it then back at his nameless friend. "I, um," he gestures to the motel and can feel his cheeks flush in shame, in humiliation in front of this rich boy, "I'm staying here. My family and me."

"My family and I," the boy corrects.

"Yeah," Dean clears his throat. "Yeah, that." Dean shifts his hold on the presents. "Well… bye," he ducks away quickly, though the parting feels incomplete. He walks away, heading towards the motel, towards his brother, telling himself furiously not to look back

He does.

The boy isn't even looking at him, staring down the street - no, staring at something far-off, something Dean cannot see. His face is ashen and grim. Something painful twists inside of Dean.

"Will I ever see you again?" Dean shouts.

The boy looks back, surprised. "Maybe," he shouts back. "Perhaps."

Dean stops, just stares at the boy with the blue, blue eyes for a moment more. He feels as though he should say something, anything. Instead Dean whispers a soft, "perhaps" to himself and turns to join Sam.

He hears a soft fluttering, like the take off a bird's wings. When he looks back, the boy is gone.


End file.
